The Inciting Incident
by beetlemate
Summary: John catches Sherlock in a compromising position. With a secret photograph. He absolutely must know what is in that bloody photograph.


John was having a good day.

The morning had begun dubiously. He'd accidentally stepped in one of Sherlock's experiments and had had to change into a fresh pair of socks. John hated wasting socks. But on his way to work a cute barista had flirted with him, so he considered the morning a wash. Then a mix-up in the scheduling at work had allowed him to take off early, and John decided things were looking up after all. Having no desire to deal with the flu epidemic that seemed to be sweeping through half of London, he'd been pretty chuffed to get out of the hospital and head for home.

He opened the door to his flat and shrugged off his jacket, noting the silence. Sherlock had been there when he'd left, but the place was dead quiet. Perhaps Lestrade had called with a case and Sherlock had scampered off?

"Sherlock, are you-?"

John's call died in his throat as several things happened at once. He simultaneously registered a loud _thud_ coming from the direction of the living room and turned the corner to let his eyes fall on his flatmate tripping over his own feet in an attempt to jump up and off the couch, where he had apparently been lying half a second before. Sherlock had wrapped his dressing gown (the only article he was wearing) tightly around his body and pulled a pillow off the couch, clutching it to himself. Over his crotch, to be specific. His cheeks burned bright pink and his blue eyes comically wide.

The look of utter surprise (and a bit of horror) was unlike any John had seen on the detective's face before.

John froze in place, but his eyes darted from Sherlock's flushed expression – to the couch - to the pillow - and finally to the smallest fluttering of movement, which appeared to be a scrap of paper settling to the ground between the two men.

John blinked.

"Were you—?" He managed to croak, but found himself unable to finish the sentence. He didn't really need the answer, though, because despite Sherlock's frequent and adamant declarations, John was not, in fact, an idiot.

He'd just walked in on Sherlock having a wank.

The concept was, to put it mildly, mind-blowing. He had no idea Sherlock even had a sex drive let alone – _did_ anything about it.

But there was Sherlock Holmes actually _blushing_ under John's gaping stare and looking for all the word like a teenager who'd just been walked in on by his mum.

And it said something about John's mental state and frankly bizarre relationship with his flatmate that his first instinct was the find the vulnerability a little – endearing.

John took a deep, slightly shaky breath, mind scrambling to put together some combination of words that might allow them to laugh off the tension and maybe pretend like nothing had happened. He never got quite that far, though. Whatever words were forming in his mind vanished as he followed Sherlock's intense gaze to the floor between them where the piece of paper had fluttered.

 _Oh_ – not paper.

A p _hoto._

A photo which had fluttered face-down nearly mid-way between the two men.

Never in John's life had he been so consumed with such an intense curiosity. It was all-consuming.

John absolutely _had_ to know what was on the other side of that photograph.

Sherlock read every intention in John's expression as easily as if he were a roadside billboard. They locked eyes for a beat.

"Don't. Even." Sherlock warned, in an attempt to sound commanding. The edge of desperation in his words undermined the effect.

There was the briefest of pauses during which John pretended to consider the command.

Then they both lunged toward the photograph at the same time. Sherlock beat him, but just barely. In one swift motion the detective scooped up the photograph, secreting it away somewhere within the folds of his dressing gown, and swirled around to dash into his room, slamming the door behind him.

John, feeling a little dazed, fell backward onto his chair. He couldn't help but huff quietly in incredulous laughter.

Well this was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Sherlock probably would have managed to avoid John for days if Lestrade hadn't texted John later that evening.

 _Are you with Sherlock? He's not answering texts._

and then

 _Trying to get him to a crime scene._

John frowned, setting down the remote to the telly. Sherlock's bedroom had been eerily quiet since The Incident, and if the detective was also ignoring potential cases then there was almost certainly something wrong. John had decided he wasn't going to let the situation get any more awkward than it already was, and had planted himself in the living room in front of some terrible television to prove he wasn't going trying to avoid his flatmate.

They lived together, after all. It wasn't that weird to occasionally glimpse some embarrassing behavior every now and then between someone you shared a home with. Okay, in this case, it _was_ more than a little shocking considering – just considering Sherlock. But if this had happened with any of John's other mates, they would just have a laugh and move on as if it never happened.

John was not going to let this be a – a _weird thing_ , dammit. At least not any weirder than it needed to be.

He texted Lestrade, asking for details. Then he took a breath and tried to assume a non-threatening, relaxed pose in his chair.

"Sherlock!" He called. No response. Shocking.

"Stop ignoring Lestrade!"

Still nothing.

"You're being a bit immature, don't you think?"

John's phone pinged and he read the series of texts from detective inspector.

Sherlock's bedroom, meanwhile, remained deathly quiet.

John rolled his eyes. Really, the man could be more sullen than a bloody teenager at times.

"Fine," He said loudly. "I guess you'll just have to let the Yard handle this triple homicide. Involving a replica sword from a Spartan king."

Another ping sounded.

"And all the victims wearing the same brand of raincoat."

There was a faint shuffling sound, and a few minutes later, Sherlock emerged, impeccably dressed with every hair in place and an expression of complete indifference. As if he hadn't spent the last three and a half hours hiding inside his room. John barely suppressed a self-satisfied smirk.

"He lives," John said wryly, ignoring the scowl cast his direction. Sherlock didn't say a word as he swept through the room, gathering up his coat and scarf. Not talking was fine, John decided. As long as he didn't feel like he needed to hide away. He heard the other man pause in the doorway for a moment, and the clear his throat.

John threw an arm over the back of the chair and turned towards the noise.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock asjed, eyes fixed on some point in between the wall and John.

John's eyebrows jumped towards his hairline. "You want me to – I mean, er, yeah..." He stood. "Right."

Sherlock disappeared through the doorway and John couldn't help but shake his head as he shrugged on his jacket. The man would never stop surprising him.

The cab ride was not particularly fun for either of them. Sherlock sat slumped in his seat with his eyes glued to his phone. This wasn't unusual, but John had spent enough time sitting in silence with the other man that he could tell a comfortable silence from one filled with tension, awkwardness, and with both of them distinctly trying to avoid looking in the other's general direction.

This was, unsurprisingly, the latter.

Eventually John sighed and turned his body slightly to face the other man.

"Sherlock," He began.

"Don't." Sherlock cut him off immediately, refusing to lift his gaze from the phone. He obviously wanted to appear nonchalant, but the death grip he had on his device told John otherwise. "We're ignoring it."

Well, alright then. John could live with that. He could still feel the tension radiating from the other man, though, and knew that something was still off. He hoped the murders would cheer Sherlock up. Once again, John marveled at the oddity that was his life.

They arrived at the address Lestrade had provided and Sherlock practically flew from the car like some bat creature, leaving John to pay as per usual. When he finally caught up, Sherlock was already hunched over one of the bodies.

John spotted Lestrade and nodded in greeting. The detective inspector gave him a small, tired smile, then scowled at Sherlock's hunched back. "Oh, _so_ glad you could spare some precious time to come out and give us a hand," Lestrade groused.

John didn't mean to. He really didn't. But the weird tension and the absurdity of the day all coalesced at that very moment and the detective inspector's words caused a loud, rather undignified snort of laughter to escape from him.

Sherlock immediately whirled around, and for the second time in so many hours, John was fixed with a wide-eyed stare of horror from his best friend.

At the comic display of terror, something snapped inside of John, and everything was suddenly intensely hilarious. He slapped a hand over his grinning mouth and turned his back to the people near him, who were beginning to eye him in confusion. "Sorry," He choked. "Just remembering, uh – something that came up earlier…"

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because it caused him to relapse into a fit of giggles that he hopelessly tried to hide as a coughing fit.

Really, he needed to pull himself together – there were dead bodies mere feet away for god's sake.

 _I'm a DOCTOR_ , he told himself desperately. _STOP. GIGGLING._

After taking several deep breaths and conjuring up the most gruesome images he could imagine from their previous cases, John felt in control enough to turn back around. He made his expression very neutral and set about inspecting the closest body.

He studied her for several minutes. "She was stabbed four, maybe five times before she died." John rattled off a few more observations before he chanced a look up in Sherlock's direction.

The man's face was ducked as much as possible behind his upturned collar, but John could see that Sherlock's cheeks were bright pink and he appeared to be preoccupied with the same minute detail of the young woman's nail polish for an inordinately long time.

Another odd wave of affection swept through John. A tiny bit of guilt, too. But it's not as if anyone besides the two of them knew what John's little breakdown had been about. The fact that The Incident (and even, weirdly, the very idea of Sherlock masturbating) stirred in him such an unusual mix of empathy and warmth was something he was not quite ready to analyze.

It just made him seem more…human somehow, knowing that he sometimes succumbed to temptation the same as all of the other "dull" people he (pretended he) was so repelled by.

John was never going to fall for that "merely transport" rubbish again, that was for certain.

Sherlock gathered evidence for a couple more hours, but as night rolled around he had pretty much exhausted any clues in the area. They took a cab back to Baker Street.

In the cab, John felt remorse tugging at his stomach. Sherlock had seemed uncharacteristically awkward at the crime scene, nearly bumping into not one but two different Yard officers. The flush, too, returned to Sherlock's cheekbones any time he caught John's eye. To John's immense relief, Sherlock continue to rattle off observations to him here and there. John silently thanked the other man for this, because it meant he couldn't be _too_ angry at him.

Instead, he'd unleashed a torrent of vitriol at any Yard officer who dared question his methods or deductions.

"Jesus," Sally Dollovan had grumbled after Sherlock nearly took her head off. "You're a real wanker, tonight, you know that?"

At her words, John had feel Sherlock's glare pressing on his face like a physical thing, and he'd stared innocently up at the ceiling, his face a careful, non-smiling, neutral mask. Not smiling even a little. Nope.

All in all, it had been an unusual evening, and John was beginning to worry that maybe he'd been a little too cavalier with Sherlock's feelings. He worried his bottom lip, trying to decide if he should apologize or just ignore the situation like Sherlock had asked him to.

He decided to go with his gut.

"Listen," he said. "I'm sorry about that, er, back there." He waited for a scathing comment. It never came, so he soldiered on. "I don't know what got into me. I didn't mean to…draw attention to anything like that. I wouldn't have laughed if I really thought it bothered you. I was just teasing. Honest." He frowned at the taller man's profile, outlined by passing neon. He didn't want Sherlock to feel like he'd been laughing at him, as clearly this was proving a sensitive subject.

Sherlock was quiet, staring straight ahead with his hands clasped in his lap. John studied his outline a moment more before turning to look out his own window, feeling like a terrible friend.

"Would you say you were…pulling my leg?"

John looked over at his friend in surprise, catching the barest hint of a smirk on his lips as they passed a brightly lit restaurant.

There was a beat of silence and then they both burst into laughter. John couldn't come up for air for what felt like hours.

"I think Lestrade thought you were having an aneurysm." Sherlock wiped at his eye, still grinning.

"I swear to god they had rehearsed or something." John shook his head, a little breathless. "I thought I was in a Monty Python sketch."

"It was quite an unfortunate series of comments," Sherlock murmured in agreement, letting his head fall back onto the seat as he regained his composure.

The rest of the ride was quiet. But it was the good kind of quiet.

John felt giddy with relief. He also felt more connected to Sherlock in a strange way. Now they had this shared moment, this secret knowledge between them. John wondered if anyone else knew that Sherlock did, in fact, harbor passion, a sex drive, underneath his façade of cold, calculating reason.

He thought he may be the only one. That idea, coupled with the fact that Sherlock was actually willing to let him share in this little secret, made him feel even more protective and admiring of this complex man.

It wasn't until late that night, as John was drifting off to sleep that the memory of the photograph rolled through him like a wave.

His eyes flew open and for a long time he stared at the shadows on the ceiling of his room.

What in the _bloody hell_ was in that photograph?

He didn't find out until several months later.

Sherlock solved the case they'd investigated that night, and countless others in the coming months. John accompanied him for nearly all of them, and their friendship felt stronger than ever. Somehow, John felt like Sherlock was grateful for John's reaction to The Incident. By ribbing him about it like a normal bloke, he'd kept the situation from becoming a point of tension in their relationship. It even seemed to make Sherlock act like a better friend towards John. He bought milk every once in a while, He slowed his pace to match the smaller man's as they strode towards crime scenes. Sometimes he would wake John gently with a hand on his shoulder when John fell asleep on the couch during late nights full of pressure and research. He would tell John, in a voice that John could only describe as tender, to go upstairs and get some sleep.

John warmed to these changes like a cat curling into touch. He didn't feel as guilty ducking out of his (rare) dates when Sherlock texted him to _Come immediately_ – _SH_ because he knew the man's face would break into a wide smile for just a moment when he saw the doctor approaching. He continued to force Sherlock to eat and sleep. Only once more did Sherlock tried to pull the "transport" argument with him, and John cocked his eyebrow and fixed him with such a look that the detective's mouth had snapped shut mid-sentence and he'd flushed so pink that he seemed to be nearly glowing.

God, and why did John find that so very endearing?

John also made sure to make an inordinate amount of noise every time he walked up the stairs to the flat, to the point where Mrs. Hudson asked him at one point if he could please keep it down, love.

He never walked in on anything resembling The Incident again, and a part of John - a part that that he tried to ignore – was disappointed. It's not that he wanted to see his best mate wanking in their living room – or anywhere, for that matter, his mind quickly added – but he wanted _so badly_ to find the photograph from that day.

He thought about the photo rather too much for it to be considered health.

He might have been a little obsessed.

He'd considered poking around Sherlock's things while he was home alone, but he knew the detective would have been able to deduce that he'd done so.

The idea that Sherlock possessed a sex drive at all had ceased to boggle him, but the question of the _object_ of Sherlock's desires drove him mad. He had never seen the man exhibit anything resembling genuine attraction for anyone, male or female. Except, perhaps, Irene Adler... It was possible the photo was of Irene, and John's stomach flipped uncomfortably at the thought.

Perhaps the photo depicted something really bizarre. Or, conversely, maybe something mundane enough to be laughable. He found the latter hard to believe, as "mundane" was an adjective that had never been used in the same sentence as Sherlock Holmes.

He wondered about the photograph while buying jam at Tesco. He wondered about it as he was trying to fall asleep at night. He wondered about it as he listened to recorded temperatures and took pulses. He wondered about it, especially, while he and Sherlock sat comfortably side by side on the couch watching telly, discussing cases, simply enjoying each other's company.

The secret of The Incident had brought them closer – but _this_ secret kept them apart. He couldn't help but feel this way, and he wondered if Sherlock felt the same.

Until one morning when Sherlock was about to leave for a trip.

Mycroft had called in a favor in the form of a case. Sherlock had begrudgingly accepted, more for the strange phenomena surrounding the mystery itself than out of any familial obligation. The case required him to fly to Scotland for the next few days. It had been decided rather last-minute, too last-minute for John to be able to call off work in time.

"You'll probably figure it out on the plane ride there anyways," John remarked, fixing himself a cup of tea as Sherlock bustled around the flat. Sherlock was packing such seemingly random objects into his travel bag that John couldn't help but wonder if he was playing some kind of practical joke on him. Why on earth could he need two unopened packages of chopsticks and a book on the history of rotary dials?

"Then it will be an even more insufferably dull three days while I do nothing but wait to return to London," Sherlock complained. The return flight had already been booked. It was a busy travel weekend and Mycroft had certainly already had to pull some strings to get the flights as it was. "I still find it hard to believe that the hospital will cease to function if you take a few days off."

"We've been through it," John warned. "Someone needs to pay the bloody rent here. Besides, they _do_ need me there right now." Nasty case of measles going around.

" _I_ need you. With me. On the case." Sherlock pouted. John didn't bother to hide his smile.

He watched the taller man place a small black toiletry bag into the larger travel bag sitting on the couch. In the opening of the toiletry bag he caught a glimpse of the bottom of a pack of cigarettes partially hidden under a bottle of expensive shampoo.

John rolled his eyes. For being a genius, the man was such an idiot. John quickly moved to snatch up the pack before Sherlock returned to the room to stop him. He hadn't seen the man smoke in months, and he wasn't going to let him ruin his progress just because he was bored out of his mind and John wasn't there to nag him.

To John's surprise, the pack felt empty. Why would Sherlock need an empty pack of cigarettes?

John flipped open the top out of curiosity. There were no cigarettes inside.

There was, however, a photograph.

He recognized the shape and size instantly as the one that had haunted his thoughts for so long now.

John's heartbeat became a jackhammer in his chest. He quickly glanced up to make sure Sherlock wasn't in sight. His hands felt clammy now that the object he'd so intensely desired was right in front of him. With slightly trembling fingers, he pulled the small photo out of the pack.

He stared at it for several moments that felt like days.

It was one of the old Polaroids, a little worn at the edges. One corner had a stained blotch from where someone had spilled tea on it.

John knew this because that person had been him, several years after the photo had been taken.

He stared at the younger, grinning version of himself, leaning against a dusty truck, shirtless, shoulder unmarred, hair closely cropped and bleached blond from the sun. Young John rested a gun on his hip as casually as an umbrella, and was tossing the camera a fairly mischievous grin, head cocked defiantly, as if daring the one taking the picture to come closer. He remembered laughing a moment before this was taking as the lieutenant had asked him to "Show us your good side, Johnny." The dog tags around his neck caught a glint from the sun.

He hadn't seen this photo in ages. It had been packed up with the rest of his military memorabilia in a box in his closet. John had set the box there when he'd first moved into Baker street and had had no reason to disturb it since.

"You know, I doubt the victim even _had_ epilepsy–" Sherlock had been talking to John from the other room for a while now, but his voice faltered as he returned to find John staring down at the photograph.

John looked up to see Sherlock's face pale. He could feel the man's eyes rapidly searching his own face, trying to deduce what he was thinking. John wasn't sure what he was thinking or even what expression he was wearing. He was too confused.

He was confused because somehow the photograph he'd been obsessing about, the photograph that in his mind he'd built up to be some hidden key to his understanding of Sherlock's inner life – thinking that if he _could only_ know what was in that photograph then maybe he would be able to understand what Sherlock wanted, desired, needed – was wrong. This was no key. It was just some stupid old photograph of John.

"John," Sherlock croaked, snatching up his bag without bothering to zip it shut. "I didn't mean – I'm sorry –"

He didn't wait for John to respond. The detective fled for the front door before John understood what was happening.

The door slammed shut and left John alone, standing stupidly in the middle of the living room.

It was a long three days, during which Sherlock did not respond to either of John's texts.

John felt very alone.

He did a lot of thinking.

He didn't sleep well.

Sherlock returned late on a Monday. John was already in bed, though he was far from sleep. He heard the front door to the flat gently open and close. Then nothing.

Still, he slept better than he had the previous nights, knowing his friend was home.

John was prepared for a lot of things the next morning.

He'd had time to come up with responses to several different scenarios for when Sherlock returned.

What he wasn't prepared for was nothing.

John stared at dark-haired man who was sitting at the table typing furiously into his laptop. He hadn't acknowledged John's presence as he'd descended the stairs, nor as he fixed a cup of tea. Make that _two_ cups of tea, one of which he'd set down firmly beside the madly typing detective.

He'd gotten a noncommittal "Mmmm" in response.

John sat down. The typing continued. He stared at Sherlock for a full minute, but the man took no notice of him.

That's the way it was going to be, then? They were just going to pretend nothing had ever happened? After all the bloody soul-searching Sherlock had made him do?

No. No, that wouldn't do at all.

John stood back up, anger filling up inside him like noxious gas.

"So that's it, huh?" He crossed his arms and glared pointedly. "We're doing – what exactly?"

Sherlock paused in his typing to bestow upon John a small, irritated frown. As if he hadn't the faintest idea of what the man was going on about. John held his gaze, feeling like a snake coiled and ready to strike. After a moment, Sherlock turned his attention back to the computer, the usual mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Ignoring it," He stated, sounding bored.

John huffed and shook his head incredulously. "Oh yeah? Ignoring it? Ignoring what exactly?" He took a step closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock remained unfazed, eyes never leaving the screen in front of him. "John, it worked perfectly well last time."

"Yeah, well this isn't last time."

These weren't the words John had rehearsed in his head. He wasn't supposed to be the one raising his voice, getting defensive. But he had expected shouting, anger, fear, embarrassment, denial, even a cruel laugh at Sherlock's twisted idea of a practical joke – anything but…nothing.

Sherlock's expression wavered as John took another step closer. He could feel the taller man watching him from his peripherals the way a cornered dog eyes a threat.

Yeah, well John felt like a threat. Before he knew what he was doing, he was crowding into Sherlock's space and shutting the top of the laptop with a definitive click. At this angle he stood taller than the sitting detective, whose eyes had widened and whose body had tensed as if ready to spring into action.

"John," Sherlock's voice betrayed a hint of nerves. "We can pretend it never happened. Our working relationship does not need to change at all." Sherlock's voice was quiet, and under different circumstances John might have thought he was pleading.

"Our _working relationship_?"

He saw Sherlock visibly flinch at the acid in his words. He hated himself for that, but he was too far in now to turn back. "So what, we just go on back to normal?" He asked, voice rising. "I follow you around on cases and you prove your own damn brilliance time and time again? Just keeping me around when convenient?"

Sherlock actually looked up at him for the first time, and now John saw the fear he'd been expecting.

"So…you're going to leave then."

Although it wasn't a question and his voice, while quiet, was even and calm, John could hear the fear and uncertainty in Sherlock's words.

"What if I did?" John demanded. "What if I just packed up and left right now?"

Sherlock didn't respond – hardly moved – but John could feel him crumple a little. He let his eyes drop from John's intense gaze.

"Would you let me? Would you just let me go?"

Sherlock glanced back up, brows pulling minutely together. John wasn't sure what his own expression was like. He was still angry, but he thought maybe Sherlock was beginning to see the true source of the anger.

"What do you expect me to feel like?" John demanded. "I find the photograph—" Sherlock recoiled as if word had been a physical blow, embarrassment plain on his face as he dropped his eyes from John's again, "—and it makes me think that you –" He huffed in frustration, unable to string together the thoughts that crowded his mind. "And then you just want to act like nothing happened? Like it doesn't mean _anything_? Like none of this has meant anything?"

He took a deep breath. He was fucking this up royally. He could do better than this.

"Would you really be okay just pretending this never happened? If you wanted something—" Sherlock's eyes jumped up to meet his own, bright and sharp and blue. "If you wanted something," John repeated, "You'd be fine to just ignore that and pretend like it didn't matter? Like it didn't matter that you wanted it?"

John had seen Sherlock look truly uncertain very rarely.

"I—I don't…" The man suddenly looked much younger. He spoke so quietly that John could hardly hear him despite how closely he stood. "I don't want to lose you."

John studied the beautiful man's face before him. The vulnerability obvious in his searching eyes and the tense line of his mouth made John's heart clench.

"But what if you could have me?"

Sherlock was frozen, eyes wide, staring at John's as if he had absolutely no idea what the man could possibly mean. John waited patiently, expecting some kind of response…but clearly he had broken Sherlock, who continued to stare at John as though he'd just declared himself the queen. Leave it to Sherlock to make John to all the work, as usual.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the man by his shoulder and kissed him.

Sherlock's tiny gasp of surprise only drew John closer. He leaned down over the man and let his hand come up to firmly hold Sherlock's head in place. After a moment he pulled away to study him the way an artist pulls away to consider the brushstroke he has just made. Sherlock's expression, though shocked, clearly was not one of horror and disgust, so instead of letting him take a moment to recover, John mercilessly pulled him in for another kiss. He'd waited long enough. Both of his hands slipped into dark curls, cupping Sherlock's skull in place as he pressed their mouths together.

He felt Sherlock's mouth open against his in another huff of startled breath and he took the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside the other man's mouth, exploring, conquering. Sherlock tasted like tea and faintly of cigarettes. It was lovely.

He finally seemed to catch up to the moment and then was kissing John back, clumsily but enthusiastically. He didn't seem to understand when to breathe at the right time, and John felt him swallow several times nervously. He pulled back to regard Sherlock's expression again.

Sherlock looked gorgeous, though still a little wide-eyed and like he might dart at any moment if John's hands weren't firmly twined in his curls. His lips were swollen and parted as he gulped down another breath. Despite the younger man's nervousness, John could feel him staring at his lips again and he grinned a little mischievously.

The result was immediate as Sherlock flushed pink. John let his eyes follow the blush down his cheekbones, down his neck, disappearing into his shirt. John decided that was his favorite thing in the world.

"You've thought about this," John said, his voice lower and rougher than he'd expected. "You've done more than just _think_ about it."

He could feel the flush all the way back where his fingers were twisted in Sherlock's curls. The man still managed to look mortified even though he'd just had John's bloody tongue on his mouth. John had never seen a more enticing image.

"What did you imagine we'd do, hm?"

He moved his body closer, forcing Sherlock's legs apart as he stood between them and leaned over him. He slid his hand around to cup Sherlock's jaw and tilt it up so he could press a kiss to the man's neck. He could feel his pulse jumping wildly under his lips.

"You know, I've wondered," John continued, enjoying himself immensely, "why you decided to be in the living room that day instead of your bedroom… Did you want me to find you?"

He felt more than heard Sherlock whimper. His hand slipped from Sherlock's jaw down to his chest.

"And you _always_ hear me coming up the stairs," He continued, enjoying the way Sherlock's chest rose and fell underneath his wandering hand. God, the man's body was responsive. "You can usually where I've been and what kind of day I've had just by listening to the way I take those seventeen steps. Because you're brilliant." He kissed Sherlock's neck. "Amazing." He kissed his cheek. A choked whine from Sherlock. John let his hand drift down and finally come to rest on Sherlock's thigh. "But not that day. Interesting."

He slowly brushed his hand over Sherlock's crotch and reveled in the resulting moan. As much as he enjoyed teasing the man, he was also incredibly aroused. But he wanted to do this right.

"Am I…right?" he asked, pulling away slightly. "Is this okay?" He tried to sound genuinely concerned (he was) and not like he was too far gone (he was, also).

"John," Sherlock groaned, managing to sound both irritated and breathless at the same time. "Obvious."

John clashed their mouths together, feeling like he might burn up and explode like a comet rocketing into the atmosphere toward earth. His other hand slipping down over Sherlock's heaving chest work open the man's fly. He felt Sherlock struggling to remember to breathe at regular intervals again.

"Breathe, Sherlock," he murmured against his lips, recalling somewhere in the back of his mind how he'd had to now urged the man to eat, sleep, and breathe. Sherlock gasped, moaned, and fisted his hands in John's jumped to pull him even closer.

He felt scrambling hands at his own trousers and moaned openly against Sherlock's lips as the man worked him free of his pants. John didn't care if he was too old to be having sex crouched over someone at a table like they were in a shadowed corner of a college party. He shamelessly leaned over Sherlock, bracing one arm against the table as he used his other to grasp both their erections firmly in his hand.

Sherlock cried out and his hands scrambled for purchase across John's back. John worked them together, his hand growing slick. Sherlock was breathing too raggedly to be able to kiss him back now, and John watched Sherlock watch John's hand pump between them.

"John," Sherlock gasped, an edge of warning in his breathless voice. He look up at John, curls plastered to his forehead in sweat and legs spread wantonly wide as he let John have all of him, every bit.

That was the tipping point. John moaned Sherlock's name and pulled firmly twice more and took Sherlock with him over the edge. Everything else dissolved into static white noise as he watched Sherlock's face as he came.

He slumped forward on top of the other man, dimly aware that neither had properly gotten their trousers off and their legs were hopelessly tangled. And sticky.

Sherlock made no move to push him off, which was just fine with John because he wasn't sure he would have been able to do much more than just slump to the floor. He waited for his heartrate to get back under control and dutifully blocked out all of the alarm bells clanging in his mind. He wasn't quite ready to think yet.

When he'd gotten his breath back, he pulled back with a bit of apprehension to observe Sherlock's face.

He couldn't be certain, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had never been with another person this way before.

And John had just jumped him. Basically held him down and had his way with him. Not that Sherlock had been complaining, but it did seem a bit not good. Without lust clouding his brain, he began to worry that maybe he'd been a little too…forceful.

"Are you, er…?" John wasn't even sure what he was trying to ask necessarily, but he needed some confirmation from Sherlock that this was what he'd been wanting too. Because John had been wanting this for much longer than he himself had even realized.

Sherlock's expression was warm, eyes lidded and a small smile on his lips as he regarded John.

"It's better with another person."

John collapsed back onto him, his laughter depleting what little strength he'd regained. He felt Sherlock's chuckle deep in his chest, and he knew that they were going to be alright.

John cleaned them up and made them two more cups of tea, as the others had gone cold.

Several days later, John was setting some laundry in Sherlock's room and he found his photograph had been stolen from him for the second time. Except now it had acquired a simple black frame and sat atop the other man's dresser. John smiled and made a mental note to kiss Sherlock silly when he returned from wherever the hell he was.


End file.
